Citron and myrtle wreath blend in the booth,
green willow and palm sheaf bound in the booth.

Fruits of the harvest for all who have labored,
season of ripeness in a small booth.

The prophet ascends to the mountain peak,
facing his doom, as we recline in the booth.

On the mildest of nights, sleep comes to refresh you.
How pleasant to dwell in a bough-covered booth.

Brightness and shadow drift through the roof.
Ruth from the desert seeks shelter in the booth.

WHAT IS SWEET?CW Hawes

The midnight hour, dark and deep, is quiet and sweet;
the black of night possesses a silence sweet.

In these hours before the dawning, when many sleep,
I find a communion sacred and sweet.

Facing the infinite night alone, alone is
when the pain of loneliness is most sweet.

My heart’s a cup, empty, yearning for filling;
in answer to my cry, the wine rich and sweet.

A heavenly vintage intoxicates my
soul and the world I find no longer sweet.

Was Mansur al-Hallaj so heavenly possessed,
he found the executioner, oh, so sweet?

A voice so stilled can only utter silence
and this silence is the Beloved’s voice sweet.

And this Suleiman, when the grey clutched his beard,
awoke in the midnight to the kisses sweet.

SWEETCW Hawes

So very sweet are these raisins and dates;
honey isn’t sweet when compared to these figs.

I drank my tea, the sugar cube between my teeth;
when your lips touched mine, sugar was no longer sweet.

Walking in the rose garden I overhear young lovers:
“Oh, Bill, of course I like roses – but I prefer Sweet William.”

Working all day in the candy apple shop;
when I get home, I’m glad the stew isn’t sweet.

Playing softball with the gang after work,
I whack the ball a good one having found the sweet spot.

Lying in the hammock smoking a cigar, sipping iced tea,
Akikaze smells the chicken on the grill: “Ah, life is sweet!”

HAIBUN

DINOSAUR AND DRAGON BONESH. Gene Murtha

This weekend is going to be different; my four year old will head the expedition in a quest for dinosaur and dragon bones. Our bellies are full; we're well clothed so we won't be hunting butterflies and birds.
We empty the backpack full of cap guns and water pistols, and replace them with small picks, trowel, sifter, basting brush and any useful kitchen utensil we can find.

Just as we break camp, I spot a scarlet tanager and Derek said it was a parrot. We continue down the path until we reach the verge overlooking a deep pit. As we follow the grade adjusting to the terrain, rocks start to slide, unearthing a flat piece of yellow quartz, triangle shaped, with one side notched inward-out, like a canine. Derek convinced me it belongs to a T. rex. The sun is high; sweat stunk-down the hair covering our naps and sideburns, collecting in the blue and white bandanas tied loosely around our necks.

On the way to the ancient forest, we found pitch pine and sassafras saplings. Dug them up. Replanting them, well spaced—for proper growth.

bedtime story
the child never
stops stalking

QIN'ANDIAN
Patricia Prime

In the centre of the north side of the Imperial Garden lies Qin'andian, the Hall of Imperial Peace, walled and secluded. I enter with pale sunshine through the Tianyi Gate, a stone single-arched gateway flanked
by two mythical animals who in legend discerned right from wrong.

a small boy
from the dragon's head
of a bronze tortoise
gives me a cool
appraising stare

A square pavilion with a pyramid-shaped roof perches on a massive pile of boulders. The Chinese collect these rocks as art objects. The effect is of a mountain range, of great wildness and savagery - here, paradoxically, in the formal garden.

the red pavilion
towers above
the outcrop
station of the Emperor
and his court in past years

Every year on the ninth day of the ninth lunar month, the Emperor and his consorts climbed up to the pavilion for a banquet. There they admired the Forbidden City before turning their gaze towards the
distant hills and valleys.

PAUL
Joost Romeu

Hey Paul! Are you listening to all this!!
As most of you know, Paul was hard of hearing.
What some of you also know—because I’ve made no bones of relating it and haven’t tired of repeating it—is...did you know—that men experiencing hearing loss are much less likely to have it treated than women? It’s true. Why it’s true is of course what’s more interesting—and speculative. What comes to mind immediately are the vagaries between men and the women they’re exposed to. But with Paul, I have the feeling it was something different; like a kind of space he felt comfortable in; the kind of space you might imagine person who grew up around things that made no noise whatsoever...; the kind of space a gardener...might find idyllic.

in an empty garden
of non-existent space
nothing exists gloriously

That’s not to say that you couldn’t use his disadvantage to your advantage. There were times he was in the room that I’d utter an aside I knew he wouldn’t hear. And more often than not he’d come back with a remark that indicated he knew exactly what I’d said. What he said was not a retort; just a remark that sat you back on your heels… And not the sort of remark that necessarily said he heard your words; more a recognition he’d sensed your intention—the way a gardener knows his garden. So Paul, I’m going to stop shouting, cause I know you can hear me now.

Listening
to the heartbeat of the dead
in wordless livery.

Before coming to live here (on the coast) I didn’t know Paul was that person I wanted to be like when I grew up. I knew where I was at as an artist; I had confidence in my work and career skills; I was learning galore building my first house; but the one thing I’d never gotten to do—passionately—was to grow a garden.

From the empty footprint
of the destinationless traveler
Basho’s pond.

Paul kinda came with Rosamond. If this was Rosamond’s passing we were commemorating, I would be saying the same about her. They just sort of seem to come together. She was the artist and he always had a project. She had the cat and he had Ruby. She had her prints and he had his garden. And though you might think Paul quite independent, Rosamond never failed to remind you how much he depended on her. We all know better. We know the relationship, and the dependency, went both ways.

A pair.
Two of a kind
in flush.

I first met them, in their yurt, attending a CityArt’s board meeting. If you never got to see their Gualala place, it took round to a new dimension. Not only was there the round main living space; it adjoined a round bedroom fashioned from a pickle barrel. In a roundabout way—and in one of my more regrettable moves—I’m partially responsible for Rosamond no longer being in Gualala. A few years after meeting them, Rosamond mentioned that they wanted to put the place up for sale so that they could live closer to health amenities. I got my networking skills into gear, made a few phone calls, and soon secured for them a buyer. I really wanted to help Rosamond, but there was also a selfish motive at work. If Paul and Rosamond had to leave, I wanted the property to go to someone I knew so that I could retain some sort of contact with the memories it had for me.

Forgotten.
Memories
dismembered.

And that’s exactly what happened.

The slapstick
of suffering water
in relapse.

And what were those memories? For me they were all centered around Paul’s garden; his plant-growing successes and experiments. and most notably his orchard. Paul grew what they ate, what they smoked, where they went for vacation, and what that seed might have been that he picked up somewhere. The orchard continues to be magical. The trees and bushes still produce mystery fruit varieties—Paul never was one for documenting things—and I know it’s not altogether the fact today’s resident Shirley stocks a gazillion bird feeders that there are few places I know in the area that invite and support a more varied bird population. It’s an odd metaphor, but I like to think of Paul & Rosamond’s place as a Frankensteinian castle atop the ridge.

sunblock shadows
lightstrewn edges
the serif and the san.

Look at it this way. In mad, Rube Goldbergian manner, Paul constructs the most cryptic and arcane system of water pipes from a rogue pump to a pickle barrel you can imagine. That tank feeds more water tanks. From there pipes stretch under and through the house and to the garden and trees. When they sold the place, Paul tried to explain the system—it was perfectly clear to him—but to this day no one’s been able to make heads or tails of it. Now, on the Northern California Coast you don’t get the lightning storm you expect of the night that spawned Frankenstein, but we do have incredible rains, that bring the water, that trigger the pumps, that fill the water tanks, that feed pipeline tributaries, that lead past valves that unexpectedly pop out of the duff, and mysteriously coalesce in a gothic set of spigots and valves that feed the hoses that somehow address the needs of each Frankensteinian tree. And what monsters. First there’s a kiwi bramble that’s grape arbor gone wild; then there’s these apple trees branching in all directions. Look at them and you know what they meant by an octopuses garden. Each arm a unique graft; each graft hosting another variety of apple; similarly with Paul’s peach; pear; and apricot trees. Mary Shelly’s novel was the metaphor of a mad doctor creating a life that only wanted to give, and receive, love. Paul’s orchard is the reality of a madman actually creating a life no less strange; and one that, by its very nature, has been and continues to be, life-nourishing.

An arms race
of arms length
reaching nowhere.

Paul turned me on to grafting. He bud-grafted using the T-method—a method he learned while working in the Valley—and got it to work quite well here. That was no mean feat. The T-graft requires that you be very sensitive to your trees, have kept the buds you cut earlier ready until you need them, and apply the graft only when the bark slips, that is when xylem & phloem separate easily at cambium interface. It’s a small window, and due to generally lower temperatures on the Coast is not the recommended way to graft around here. So the fact Paul had such success on the Ridge is that much more impressive and testimony to the fact that he was an expert at his craft. But I didn’t understand his description, and, so when he and Rosamond were at our place I cajoled him into demonstrating it for me. I believe Diane had suggested this might not be a good idea; he’d gotten into years and was probably not the knife-wielding aficionado he’d once been—but I was not to be deterred. So Paul and I went out to the Kiwi tree I’d dug up at Nick Kings and planted in my garden. Then he pulled out of his pocket his ever-present, razor-sharp, pocket knife and proceeded to slit the bark carefully. It was painful to watch him. Obviously his mind knew what he wanted to do, but his body was having a difficult time keeping up. The cuts he made, though sure, were shaky, and I was starting to think Diane might have had a point. We did not want a bleeding Paul on our hands. But he finally finished the cut; carefully slipped the bud into place; and then, in the way an old seamstress might thread a needle, he deftly took the rubber band, whipped it twice around the branch and tied it into a perfect loop! It was amazing; and I was astounded.

From the incision
the bloodless wound
screams.

I helped him prune his orchard one year. He went around and told me where to cut. It wasn’t a hit or miss affair. He knew exactly where he wanted the cut. And if I didn’t understand and lop the branch off in exactly the right place he’d pick up the lopper and cut it a bud or two down. At the end of the day we had a huge pile of branches.
I was naïve. I took a bunch of them home; and stuck them in the ground just to see what might happen...

The punctuation
The sentence
carried out.

I feel bad that I never did get to show at CityArt Gallery. I did have my opportunity; Art Sanchez and I had scheduled a time slot but I had to pull out because—what with building a house and all—too much was going on in my life to complete my artwork. You always have fantasies about how things you’re looking forward to are going to turn out—and this was my fantasy about that show. I thought that since it was unlikely anything of mine was going to sell that I would start the show out with a red-dot underneath one of my paintings—a painting of a mushroom. When people came in and expressed surprise about the immediate sale, I would tell them that it was Paul’s. And when Paul arrived, I would make a point of telling him it was his. That was my fantasy. And it never happened. In fact, it wasn’t until Diane Cochran and Rosamond had their show that I had Paul over to the house; took out all my mushroom paintings; had him pick the one he liked best. The next morning, when he was leaving for Kentucky John’s, I gave him the one he’s picked. While he was asleep I’d inscribed the back of that painting: “To Paul, a good friend, long before we met.” And that’s the way I felt about him; as if we’d somehow met in a previous lifetime and struck up a friendship.

To recognize no one
To remember
No thing.

It was about a year after that that Diane and I went to Fort Bragg and visited Rosamond and Paul. Rosamond had something to do and was more than happy to leave Paul with us...and I’d never played Bocce ball. So we drove Paul to the Senior Center; signed out a set of bocce balls; and the three of us played a few rounds. We were playing to 15. Paul won the first round; I won the second; Paul was tiring; one more game would decide the winner (or it would be a three-way tie). I don’t understand why people don’t find the odd situations one can get into as interesting as I do, but I found the proposition of rolling the pilot or “jack” ball (the little one that you need to get the other ones closest to) up against one of the walls and by so doing restrict the game possibilities, fascinating. Maybe it’s one of those Italian non-kosher things, but Diane didn’t think my bright idea very interesting; and Paul would have nothing of it. He demanded that I re-roll the ball. That was a fairly long round—one or the other of us earning a point or two at a time—but about the time push was coming to shove Diane and I had 14 points and were both leading Paul’s 12. On the next play, Paul scored an astounding 3 points and took the round and the day. On the way back to the car, he didn’t say anything, but I noticed a slight spring to his step that wasn’t there before. It was shortly after that day that Paul had his first fall. I sent him a card admonishing him that it was going to take a lot more than a fall on his part to prevent me from demanding a rematch. But the rematch never happened.

To remember
a score never settled
and rest.

Rosamond promised Diane and me a choice of any print of hers. I should have taken advantage of the offer when she brought it up, but didn’t relish having to carefully box and store another piece of artwork while my house went through its building growing pains. I hope she doesn’t think I haven’t brought the matter up because I don’t want her art in my home—I do. And Rosamond, we’re going to have to take you up on this matter soon.

To want;
not receive
and wake up refreshed.

Paul, I don’t need anything from you. Y’see, those branches I stuck in the ground...over 70% of them came up and last year, for the first time, we knew what kind of tree each of them was. We had apricots; and peaches; and plums; and figs; and apples. In fact, here’s a jar of apricot jam from one of those trees. And maybe, just maybe, in ten years or so, my orchard will become an octopus garden.

In sunlight
and in shade.

BLISSfor Cor Van Den HeuvelGerard John Conforti

Flowers burst within my heart, the spring has come with the red buds of trees beginning to change to leaves. My eyes view the blue skies with passing warm clouds over the bridges and steaming rivers. With the flow of life, the blue within my anatomy, life beats like the burning sunlight coming over the horizon.

The joy of strolling
beneath the trees
the red buds fall
upon the blacktop
I stroll onward

The placid ponds
light up moonlight
and filled with blue stars
rippling with raindrops
flowing everywhere

Night has come and the rain has ceased falling upon the earth. The stars pulsate in the skies, the horizon is flat with tides, and the sea is calm with low rolling waters flowing in melancholy waves upon the shore.

A lonely path ahead
I take a final stroll
passed the singing of birds
somewhere in the trees
my heart sings with sorrow

Within my mind, I can hear the autumn leaves falling and crashing to earth between the tree boughs. Once again the snow will fall upon the silent earth.

Early morning:
a seagull circles & circles
the gray sky
the silence it holds
gliding without a sound

The cemetery holds the spirits of those passed-on. I grow older each passing day living to the full heart-felt joy life can bring.

Tears flow down my face
so many have gone
known and unknown to me
some friends and parents
never to be seen again

The clouds disappear as they move across the sky. The sunlight breaks through with every passing cloud. Upon the valley the sunlight streams in all directions. Upon the meadows, the buttercups burst with yellow light.

This bliss
has been more pain than joy
but it is worth living
for something that I love
and that you may love

When I write my last poem, I hope people will finally forgive me for whatever I may have done to them, because I have already forgiven them.

There is much joy
in any flowering plant
or valley or mountain
all the bliss lies there
and will never tire

VISITORS
Gina

There are two of them, males. They arrived in May, from who-knows-where, a little shabby without their summer finery. On weekends, we share toast and most evenings they roost, like giant-sized chickens
with enormous drumsticks, on the rooftop. They roam the street jumping onto my fence from the neighbour’s yard and into mine. Some mornings, very early you may be woken by their distinctive pitched call of ‘heeeeeeelp’ competing with the wind chimes. Through slit blinds I see the silhouette of one against a gray-blue sky perched on top of the chimney.

distant thunder
tall gum trees perfectly still
before the storm
I waited, as promised
and watched the tide ebb away

Ripples circle the rock where, in the tide’s cloud-crawl, tiny crabs go on with their crabby lives and I wonder how words can convey this sense without images to the eye. On this slow, tedious, amplified
afternoon, I lean against the colossus baffled by the clamour of these idiot gulls, ignorant in the art of give and take, because its perfectly clear who should yield.

crushed
shell in a footprint
empty beach

* * *

The spring wind blows chilling cold. Lashing rain against the windows, it is a late autumn wind born out of time. A specter of past – or future. A reminder. A harbinger.

Hunkered down in our apartment, my wife and I eat our supper and watch to see when the metamorphosis to snow occurs. Our talk hovers around tomorrow morning’s commute to work.

clustered in the trees
dozens of crows midnight dressed
all of them cawing

CW Hawes

A lazy afternoon at work. No one seems in an overly productive mood. There is laughing and joking. People wandering from cube to cube visiting. A look out the window shows me a darkening sky.

next week
the boss returns
spring vacation

CW Hawes

SUMMER, 1977 Roger Jones

Back from college, I look for summer work, but what boss or business wants to hire a 20-year old kid, with a bad car, who lives thirty miles in the country? After weeks of head-shakes, No's, and unanswered
phone calls, I resign myself to a summer of unemployment on my parents' farm.

woods trail
yellow jackets swarm
from the cow skull's eyes

DIAPHANOUSGillena Cox
Sitting in a taxi, returning home from an errand, i can read the sign on a car traveling in the opposite direction. Over the front windscreen, $69,000.00; in big bold letters. The driver's smug face is seen at the wheel as the two vehicles, very briefly get to be side by side.

this morning's –
a diaphanous day moon
after the eclipse

NOW, VOYAGER Elizabeth Snider

She came out of the sea on an evening tide, drawn by the song of the man as he repaired nets ripped in the day's catch. She left her soft brown coat at water's edge and moved slowly into the gloaming. He caught sight of her in the corner of his eye, like a ghost formed from the mist. He whispered her into his bed that night. She stayed for seven years, tending the fire and birthing his babies. Until the sirens called her back one moonlit night, deep into her father's keep.

Mermaids
braid Spanish moss.
Gull feathers trail kelp.

PAINTING BY MOONLIGHT
Edward Baranosky

One of my distant uncles ran a restaurant situated on a high bluff overlooking a tidal inlet on the
coast of Maine. I spent a few days there during summer breaks helping out in the kitchen and
absorbing the scenery. When the high tide was running, he loved to go surf-casting for striped bass,
inviting myself and my cousins to come along. Often this was in the very early morning hours.
So I brought my paint box and attempted to capture the surf by flashlight and moonlight. At other
daytime events I was called off the rocks by state park rangers for spattering paint. I was just nine
when I started.

breakers fold over
searching for sharper shells
another bare footprint

The environment I express is this canvas brought forward. The objectivity is of the particulars of
place, time, and atmospheric conditions. But they are also images of a composite, mythical memory;
and in this way a subjective personal vision. It is within this balance between the documentary and
expressive that the authentic takes on the force of visual poetics. In the synthetic world it may
appear as the synesthesia of an alternate reality.
But it is anchored at the source.

indelible sea
anchored in memory
painting by moonlight

HAIGA

BUBBLES Allison Millcock

FIRST WARM DAY Yu Chang

NIGHTBLOSSOM Shanna Moore

AUTUMN Gina

DRAWN BLINDS Gina

SUNRISE Gina

SEQUENCES

BLUE FOGElizabeth Howard

voice mail
from my cousin
buried yesterday –
on the window
imprint of a dove

lost in a snowstorm
woodcutter father –
a trace comes spring
the fairy circle
by the cave mouth

blue fog
out of the cold clay –
her unfettered
by earthly ills
her feather breath

only her blue stole
and butterfly brooch
frozen in the lake
yet muddled footprints
and runaway rumors

from the plastic bag
in the cardboard box
ashes spill into the river
a white flower drifting
eyeball bounding